


Nothing To Declare

by Hambone



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Egg Laying, Fisting, Multi, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Promiscuity, REALLY Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ultra Magnus has put up with a lot of strange things in his relationship with these two, but this is pushing it. Drift is carrying, and Rodimus makes requests that are not being fulfilled. Things are bound to get weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing To Declare

**Author's Note:**

> For meatfart on Tumblr. You break it, you buy it.  
> Enjoy!

It was three weeks after Drift had gotten sparked up that Rodimus asked the question. He was sitting in Ultra Magnus’s office, in Ultra Magnus's own lap, his sharp spike pumping lazily between the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord’s fingers when he asked it, but the moment the words left his mouth the hand on him stilled.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Rodimus lay back, still too lazy to do more than shift his hips needily into his partner’s hand. Ultra Magnus was, for lack of a better word, stunned.

“Uhm, Rodimus, with all due respect, I don’t think that-”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Rodimus waved his hands dismissively, “ I already know what you’re gonna say, and so I’m going to say what I would have said if you had said what I know you were going to say, at least hypothetically.”

He paused a moment, perhaps for dramatic effect, or perhaps to mourn the language he had just massacred with his last sentence.

“No.”

Spluttering, though he would never admit to it, Ultra Magnus recoiled a bit in his chair.

“You can’t just say no to the laws of physics!”

He stressed the syllables of ‘law’ like Rodimus did not already know his infatuation with order like the back of a type 8.12 Polyhex wide range blaster. Rolling his optics, as if Magnus’s complaint was incredibly juvenile, Rodimus sighed humorously.

“You know I’m a big boy,” he thrust his hips up for emphasis, “and that I can take it. Drift and I do it all the time.”

Even more taken aback, Ultra Magnus pulled away completely, manually lifting Rodimus, who did not even bother resisting, and turning him to sit on his desk, mouth a grim line.

“Well,” he said, trying to speak as clearly as possible despite his muddled thoughts, “well, I am not Drift.”

“Pff,” Rodimus snorted, a strange and unnatural sound that everyone had seemed to have picked up upon lately, “I know that. _Duh._ ”

He crossed his arms and swung his legs back and forth, hitting against Ultra Magnus’s knees.

“So nothing I do will convince you?”

Frowning deeply, Magnus hardly considered the question.

“You’re on thin enough ice as it is, after what’s happened with Drift.”

“Oh shuddup,” Rodimus laughed, hopping off the desk.

“Where are you going? Don’t you want me to…” he indicated at Rodimus’s still pressurized spike.

“I’m going to find someone who isn’t too much of a worry-weld to fist me!”

He turned and strutted to the door, which opened with a quiet swish. Turning in a sprightly fashion that made his equipment bob comically, he called back into the office, “and that person is Drift, by the way.”

“Rodimus-!”

Ultra Magnus reached out, half standing, as if he could stop the mech, but it was far too late, as always. Rodimus turned out into the hall and immediately ran into Swerve, who reacted about as well any anyone who was minding their own business and then suddenly found someone’s warm and ridged spike slapped up against the side of their face would and screamed bloody murder.

* * *

 

Four weeks later Rodimus was lying on his back next to Drift, both of them propping their legs up on the pink walls of Rodimus’s hab suite. The captain was throwing tiny bits of a crisp snack he had against the wall, trying to hit an angle that would bounce them off into Drift’s face. While Drift could have hypothetically moved a foot to the right and avoided any chance of being pelted by food, Rodimus was proving a rather poor shot in this particular scenario and the way the tip of his tongue slid between his lips as he concentrated was too cute a feature to be observed from afar. Besides, if the treats did land correctly, he got a mouth full of salty crisp, which was always a good thing.

“Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that.”

Ultra Magnus had been increasingly annoyed by Rodimus’s attempts to get his way in the berth and was now claiming that, until he had weaned himself off his size queen craze, they would not interface another moment. There was no question in Rodimus’s mind that this was not a possible reality, because he was far too good at what he did to get turned down for long, but the plan of action was what really mattered. He rolled onto his side, finally getting bored of covering his bed with crumbs, and put his chin on Drift’s chest, pouting at him dolefully.

“He’s such a slagging stiff about this junk. I mean, like, do I have to prove my aft’s ability to him or something?”

Drift laughed, shifting uncomfortably as the point of Rodimus’s chin guard caught a seam.

“I’m sure he knows your… abilities to their fullest as it is.”

The answer wasn’t wholly satisfying, but Rodimus managed a small smile, reaching his arm around to stroke across Drift’s slowly swelling belly. The bitlets would take a while yet to be large enough for the universe, but his thin waist made the shifting an rearranging of his plating vastly more noticeable than it would have on another bot. Rodimus loved it, kissing and murmuring to the bulge even though the eggs had likely hardly formed their spark chambers yet, much less any form of hearing apparatus.

“I just want, you know, I want him to get it.”

Not quite understanding, Drift nodded, laying his head back against the berth pad. Rodimus wriggled around until he was more on top, nudging his helm against Drift’s chin.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It doesn’t make much sense.”

Drift could feel the vibrations of his words echoed in his own throat.

“I mean, not everything I do is about interface. Even when it is.”

Wrapping an arm around his back, Drift played with the edge of his great spoiler, humming gently. Rodimus pressed soft kisses to his cheek and jawline and neck, movements beginning chaste and then slowly evolving. He did not pause to consider the irony of the increasingly intimate pawings down his partner’s frame.

“What does it feel like?”

He managed to wiggle his way between Drift’s parting thighs, rocking against him gently.

“Carrying, I mean.”

Drift thought a klik, running his fingers across Rodimus’s chest.

“Heavy.”

“Heavy?”

“Yes. And I’m too warm sometimes.”

He lifted his hips a bit, retracing his panels. As much as he enjoyed the slapdash and carefree way they intertwined sometimes, he was always grateful for the slower, more peaceful moments like these. Rodimus toyed lazily with the outer folds of his valve lining, seeming to mull his words over.

“I like it though,” Drift added, stretching his limbs out in a wide arc as little shocks of pleasure ran up his back strut.

“I feel so at one with everything. It’s kind of incredible, actually.”

Rodimus’s spike nudged against him, rubbing up between the cleft of his valve and the base of Drift’s own plug as Rodimus began to thrust his hips.

“What about when we frag? What’s that like, with them in there?”

He patted Drift’s belly, which made them both snicker a bit.

“Full,” Drift sighed, canting his hips up further in an unspoken beg, “really full. There’s all this pressure, from both ends, it’s- it’s strange but-!”

Rodimus cut him off by sliding inside his valve, enraptured by the pretty shape of his lips as they parted in a silent cry.

“Full,” Rodimus murmured, watching the way Drift’s valve clung to his spike as he pulled out and then pushed back inside slowly, “that sounds nice. I like that.”

Drift could only moan.

* * *

 

“No.”

“It’s important to him. Could you not at least try?”

“What part of _no_ do you not understand?”

Ultra Magnus turned back to his desk work and continued filing. He had decided recently that the format for alphabetizing his data he had been using was not efficient enough and was trying to find a way that was closer to the golden count. He really did not have time for Drift bringing him Rodimus’s problems.

Walking around the desk, Drift grasped Ultra Magnus’s arm and lifted himself up on his toes so as to look him directly in the optic.

“It’s not just about him getting off. I know you’re worried about hurting him but he trusts you.”

Ultra Magnus looked down at where he was being touched with such an expression that Drift nearly jumped away for fear of being burned.

“His trust means nothing if it is without any form of logic or understanding of how physics work.”

Sidling close again, Drift gave him his most placating expression, palms open as if offering condolence.

“His aura is in a deep unrest. Darkness follows him around and-” Ultra Magnus looked ready to deck him, “-and you know that if it isn’t wider than his pelvic span Rodimus has already had experience with it.”

Grumbling, Ultra Magnus considered.

“Would it help if you observed us first?”

He looked down his nasal ridge at Drift, who seemed oddly small.

“My hands are much larger than yours.”

“Just watch? Once. You know you have enjoyed it before.”

The pause that fell in the room was a thick one. After a few kliks Drift began to wonder if Ultra Magnus was actually going to speak again or if he had fallen into some kind of catatonic state at the last moment. He knew Rodimus should have been more forceful in his attempts to get Magnus to attend Rung’s class about proper use of language in a pleasant setting. Nobody else had ended up going and it had been a rather depressing event. And now there was this.

“Fine. If it will make you leave and allow me to finish my work _in peace_.”

 “Yes, of course.”

Drift was bowing and backing his way out of the office before he finished speaking. The moment the door to the hallway slid shut Ultra Magnus could hear the clang of running feet echo down the passage and he wondered what he had gotten himself into.

* * *

 

“Comfortable?”

Ultra Magnus shifted on the couch, wishing the question had been directed at him and not at Rodimus, who was nodding enthusiastically while Drift pushed a third finger into his valve. He was uncomfortable, and slightly angry at letting himself get into this situation, but unfortunately no one was giving him an out and the fact remained that he did quite enjoy watching Rodimus’s helm fall back with an excited moan as Drift twisted his wrist and began to stretch him out.

Since they both knew Ultra Magnus’s preference for safety above all else they had brought a large tub of lubricant with them, something Rodimus had gotten from a very inebriated Jackpot several evenings ago. It was hardly needed, because being watched always made Rodimus wet as an Aquarian bridal shower, but Drift had still coated his hand and was now enjoying the slick sound of it as he easily introduced a fourth finger. Rodimus was laughing a little bit because it was loud and kind of ridiculous but he was also pumping his hips subtly off the desk in a desperate need for more. Thumbing his external node, Drift switched his weight from foot to foot at his own equipment heated in sympathy.

“Come on,” Rodimus was hissing, glancing back at the couch where Magnus rearranged his legs for the thirteenth time, “it’s working. Come on!”

He pushed his fingers in to the knuckle, fanning them in a way that made Rodimus pant like a turbo fox in heat.

“Frag, Drift, _Drift!_ ”

 Over on the couch, Ultra Magnus crossed his legs.

“Are you read?” he whispered and Rodimus kicked him in the hip (gently).

“Yea! Yeah already!”

His thumb, never fully blunted down from being a claw, carefully navigated the rim of his valve, teasing the lips a bit before pressing in the juncture between all four fingers. With only the barest hint of resistance, he slid his entire hand inside, excess lubricant bubbling out around the intrusion. Rodimus arched his back up, grounding his heels against the berth and lifting his hips into the push until Drift was in to the wrist, poking and prodding at the nodes near the back of his valve.

“Oh fuck!” said Rodimus, helm lolling to the side, “slag, o-oh slagging…”

Drift bit his lip, smiling widely. When the alien curses came out he knew things were going well. Fanning his fingers a bit, he curled his hand to make a solid fist, catching some nodes between his knuckles and making Rodimus shiver with little gushes of lubricant punctuating each moan. Out of the corner of his optics he watched Ultra Magnus, taking in each twitch and pause. He knew that Magnus was uncomfortable with the idea of doing this to Rodimus, or, likely, anyone, but he could also see a definite intrigue. It was definitely a bizarre request, he couldn’t deny that, but he knew from experience that Rodimus often equated intimacy with trust and emotion. He was the type of mech who used fragging like a good handshake, but it was also a way to assess a personality, to better understand a friend. And Ultra Magnus was a friend to Rodimus, whether he wanted to be or not.

They had interfaced often enough but turning down a request not for reasons of personal dislike but worry over Rodimus’s being seemed more like a lack of understanding than anything, but he could see how it had put his captain off. The supposed ban on interface had of course been lifted mere cycles after being put into effect but there had come to be a rift there that needed healing.

A shifting inside his stomach brought him up from his thoughts for a moment, stumbling, though not noticeably, in his pattern of twisting inside his captain’s inlet. The eggs were growing more each day. They had better be over this stupid conflict before the emergence or Drift was going to have to take drastic measures. _Nobody_ wanted that.

“You likin’ this, Magnus?”

Rodimus was drooling a little bit as he spoke, bouncing back and forth almost comically on the berth pad. Ultra Magnus apparently had not expected to be addressed and jerked up, ruffled.

“It’s…tolerable.”

Rodimus snorted.

“Try to contain that en-enthusiasm.”

But there was an edge to his voice that both of them heard and Drift did his best to cover with a well-planned tug of his fist, pulling it almost all the way out and watching the way his valve lips strained and squeezed around the width of his hand. Rodimus’s gasp was breathless and urgent and Drift realized how close he really was. Pushing in hard he leaned over his heaving frame, until his lips brushed Rodimus’s audio receptor.

“Let’s make him remember this.”

Rodimus came near screaming, every strut taught as a garrote, perfect, shining, mouth wide open. Drift kissed at his throat, hips pumping a few times of their own accord in want. In the corner of his eye he could see Ultra Magnus, enraptured, and for a small moment his thick fingers almost found their way to his own panels. However, by the time Rodimus had recovered, panting and sticky, Ultra Magnus had left the room.

* * *

 

The eggs were coming. Drift had doubled over in the hallway outside Swerve’s, clutching his wide stomach, and Skids had immediately rushed out and bolted him down to the med bay, followed by a procession of curious and excited bots who bore witness to the slapdash race. By the time they actually reached the lower decks Rodimus and Ultra Magnus had to fight their way through a crowd that Ambulon was weakly attempting to fend off outside the med bay doors. Ratchet, inside, initially assumed they were crowd breakers who had gotten past the weak defense. Rodimus managed to dodge several surgical tools before Drift was done laughing behind his hand and informed Ratchet that this was the sire.

“Oh.”

Ratchet scrunched up his nose.

“I always thought it was that green guy. You know, the one from the bar.”

Drift did not in fact know who he could possibly be referring to but another spasm in his valve kept him from asking questions. Ultra Magnus stood in the back of the room respectfully – and a tad nervously, but he would not show that – but Rodimus was all around the berth at once, overly excited and simultaneously on the verge of purging.

“Everything’s cool, Drift, everything is totally, one hundred and ten percent cool, totally cool-!”

Ratchet shoved him out of the way so hard he nearly fell into First Aid, crouching over the end of the bed where he prompted Drift to spread his thighs, positioning a towel below his aft.

“You’re gonna have to open for me,” he said, the most kind tone he had ever taken in any of their presences. Drift was already fairly dilated, panting and grimacing as a slew of fluids poured out and mussed his thighs. First Aid, already on it, switched his towel out for another.

“There we go. Lookin’ good. How far apart are the contractions?”

Drift’s optics were glowing a strange color.

“Oh, this is- this is really special isn’t it? I- I feel so in tune with my au-aaahhh!”

He jumped a bit, gritting his teeth, and his valve fluttered as another push inside him finally propelled an egg from his gestation tank and into his valve channel. He bucked involuntarily, digging his fingers so tightly into the berth it began to split the mesh. First Aid wiped at his forehead with a small rag, as if that was helping much. Rodimus jumped from foot to foot.

“Oh man. Oh wow. Look at that.”

“Shut up, would you?”

Ratchet gently pressed his thumbs against Drift’s cleft, pulling his valve open. Drift made a small sound of surprise and discomfort.

“Is it supposed to fe-feel like that?”

Observing a small gush of lubricant wet the towel, Ratchet snuffled a bit.

“Arousing? Yes.”

Rodimus grabbed Drift’s hand.

“What? Are you getting off on this? Oh by Primus. Is that normal?”

“Yes!” Ratchet snapped, and then Drift bit his lip and groaned softly. The pale tip of a silver egg came into view. Ratchet pulled him just a bit wider, concentrating.

“First Aid, get the cleaners ready.”

He was already there, a small tray with a bucket and several hand towels at the ready. He seemed to vibrate after being acknowledged.

“This is-!” Drift moaned out loud then, calipers flexing in a great push that brought the egg halfway into the world. He was stretched wide around it now, but not wide enough to hurt, quaking as his body worked up the strength to keep pushing.

“This is a magical experience!”

Drift’s optics were almost violet as he grinned in dumb joy at his crotch.

_“By the Allspark.”_

There were no words to describe how utterly, completely annoyed Ratchet was. His optics looked like they very well might roll back into his cranial unit. Rodimus squeezed Drift’s hand a little harder than he needed.

“You’re doin’ great, come on, it’s totally fine!”

“Stop saying that it’s fine! You’re going to freak him out!”

“How could I ever be worried when I am taking part in the miracle of-!”

He was finally cut off by what was nearly a yelp when the egg popped out, rolling a bit on the damp cloth. First Aid gingerly reached between his legs and grabbed it, moving it to the tray to wash and towel off. Another fit of spasms took over and Drift began rolling his hips as if he were being fragged, wetness staining his thighs. Another egg began to peek from his folds. Drift let out a thin whine.

“You’re doin’ good, kid. Doin’ fine.”

“Yeah,” First Aid piped up, “you’re a good frame type for this. You’ve got g-good thighs. I mean hips!”

Thankfully, nobody was paying attention, and he could hide his shame in wiping down the new egg he was suddenly presented with. Drift was straining hard, shuddering until his plating rattled.

“This is r-really intense!”

“It will be. You got four more, Drift, you can do this.”

Too came at once this time, one sliding out after the other in a small stream of fluid, and Drift’s head fell back against the berth with a loud clunk as he wailed. Rodimus made a sound of panic, only realizing a moment later that Drift was overloading, hips shaking with effort as his engine roared. Ultra Magnus coughed into his fist.

“It’s alright, that’s normal.”

Ratchet wiped his hands off on the towel then returned to massaging the edged of Drift’s valve, coaxing another egg forward. Rodimus squeezed his hand so hard that Drift had to shake him off, unable to speak through another wave of charge as his calipers rippled.

“Wow. Wow. Magnus, are you _seeing_ this?”

He was, in fact. Every stretch of Drift’s valve seemed as though it should be immensely painful, but the mech was moaning, shaking, pawing at the berth. Ultra Magnus had been through a lot of strangeness with these two and apparently it was beginning to rub off on him, to his horror, because as Rodimus continued to scurry around the room in a state of mindless joy as his progeny (a terrifying concept) found their way into the universe, he was finding himself becoming aroused. Drift was beautiful even when not in rapture, his wide shoulders and legs balancing neatly against his tiny waist, the strength and keenness that made him a potential danger also lending him an immaculate grace. Ultra Magnus was no fool; he knew that most of Drift’s happy-go-lucky personality was as much a kid to the rest of them as it was to himself, but when he had tumbled his way into Rodimus’s berth he had also found a way into the strange relationship between him and Magnus. That made him, for better or for worse, family.

And now here he was, producing life from his gestation tank in a process that should have been wholly solemn, or so the manuscripts he’d read on them claimed, and the room was chaos. Drift was overloading again, possibly even for a third time, and Ratchet was yelling something at Rodimus squealed in unbecoming hysteria. First Aid spared him a glance, washing the second to last egg in the bucket of watered down solvent, and Ultra Magnus nodded at him quietly. He did not want to attract any attention to himself right now. Not when the final bulge began to push behind Drift’s valve lips, stretching the pale white mesh until it seemed to glow in the clinical lighting. The silver shell winked teasingly a few times and then, with a final straining cry, plopped gently into Ratchet’s hands.

“Oh, that was good. That was very good, kid.”

Drift was panting, some final fluids drooling down his aft, and Rodimus kissed him on the helm over and over again, shaking with glee.

“Primus, wow, fuck, Drift, those are ours, are you seeing them? Are you looking? We made those. Fuck.”

Nodding dazedly, Drift leaned back into the berth, clearly exhausted, and Ratchet shooed Rodimus away so he could help Drift to his feet and get him over to the mini wash rack they had for emergency situations. First Aid took over from there, helping him clean himself off as Ambulon was called back into the room to turn the bed over. The crowd had not dissipated, it seemed, but were keeping their distance after having heard some of Drift’s cries and apparently interpreting them as pain. Ratchet called Ultra Magnus over as he tried to keep Rodimus from bouncing out of his plating.

“Alright, I’m gonna tell you both because I know this idiot,” he jerked a thumb at Rodimus, “won’t remember everything. You’re gonna wanna take some notes.”

It was a surprisingly simple talk, all things considered. The eggs had come out smoothly, but Drift was going to stay a few solar cycles to ensure everything was working perfectly and that his abdominal plating would realign correctly. The eggs were being monitored too, but seemed strong sparked and healthy. Care for him was going to require a lot of attention and calmness, but his recovery should, all things considered, not take more than a week. Drift’s carrier protocols would have kicked in full throttle by then and the eggs would be in good hands. That is, with repeated check-ins from Ratchet himself. You could never be too careful with those hippie fools.

When they returned to Drift he was back in the berth, all clean and warm on clean padding with the eggs in a makeshift nest of towels by his side. He seemed half into recharge but managed a tired smile as Rodimus rushed over and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Bet your aura is shining now, buddy.”

“Yeah.”

Drift’s gaze turned to Magnus, smile not faltering for a nano-klik.

“Hey.”

“Soldier.”

It was a knee jerk reaction. Drift laughed.

“So I suppose this is going to be a group effort?”

Rodimus pressed their foreheads together, practically rubbing noses.

“With you all the way, Drift.”

It was a tender moment and despite knowing better Ultra Magnus could not help but feel out of place. It was not that he was not happy about this development, or that he was not touched by the moment, but it seemed as though he was moving at a different speed from everyone else. His thoughts still lingered on the plush stretch of Drift’s valve as yet another egg had pushed fourth, the teetering edge between fullness and emptiness he must have felt. Rodimus’s aft was swaying as he continued to hug and nuzzle Drift’s shoulders, and he found his optics drawn to it.

“You should give him some room. He needs rest.”

Ratchet sounded considerably more relaxed now that he had gotten everyone to shut up. Without complaint they said their goodbyes and parted, this time simply nodding and chatting with the gathered bots outside. Everyone was curious and Rodimus was not afraid to give them the gorey details. A little too explicitly, probably, but everyone was eating it up until Ultra Magnus dragged him away.

“Oh come on! They were into it!”

“That’s unimportant.”

“Okay, okay, let go already! That kinda hurts.”

Ultra Magnus did not say anything, nor did he let go. It took a few more comments for Rodimus to realize something was up and shut his mouth. When they were almost at his personal quarters Ultra Magnus stopped, seemed to think a moment, and then pushed Rodimus into the wall, a hand roughly groping between his legs.

“Fine,” he ground out, “fine. I’ve seen enough.”

“What- hey! What are you doing?”

Not that he was upset, but this was highly unusual behavior and Rodimus was squirming and his panels were opening and they managed to make it into the room before kissing passionately. The tenderness of the med bay melted away to pure, raw lust, whatever fires had been burning inside Magnus’s gut spilling over until every inch of him was itching to get ahold of his captain, to hold them close together. He practically threw Rodimus on the desk, scattering data pads everywhere, a nuisance, and mess that he would have to clean up later, but now Rodimus’s thighs were spread wide and he was laughing and Magnus was drawn to him like nothing else.

“This is crazy,” Rodimus yelped, “have you lost it?”

Ultra Magnus shoved a fat finger into his valve, sinfully wet already, curling and twisting and followed far too quickly by another. Rodimus was all too receptive, urging him on, holding his own legs back with his wrists so he could spread himself wider.

“This is what you wanted,” he plunged in a third, the threshold they normally stopped at, “this is what you’re getting.”

“Oh, slag,” said Rodimus, bucking, “you liked that didn’t you, in the med bay, seeing Drift like that. You liked it, slag!”

He liked it too. The fourth finger, Primus, was so thick it burned. He was so hot now, melting against the metal desktop, a data pad that had been pinned by his back nipping painfully at his shoulder. He rolled his calipers in an enticing way. His thumb pressed at his other fingers, as he had seen Drift do, but there was so much tension already and nothing budged. He tried so scissor his other fingers a bit more, and Rodimus moaned and squirmed, but it wouldn’t go in. it was too much, too big.

“Do you have- the lubricant? Is it-?”

Rodimus seemed confused a moment before he struggled to lift one hand, leg kicking out as he dropped it.

“It’s- it’s in here.”

He reached into his subspace, scrambling, disoriented, pulling out a half empty cube of energon and then tossing it back just as quickly.

“Somewhere, I…”

It was hard to think. Magnus kept thrusting his fingers because he could do nothing else, the calipers pushing and pulling as they tried to decide whether he should go or stay. He felt mad with the moment, disorganized in his thoughts in a way he always feared he may be, but in the strangest way he did not want it to stop, not until his goal was achieved. It was all part of the plan, he reasoned, the plan that did not exist but he was following.

Rodimus let out a triumphant cry followed by a pleasured one, thrusting the bucket out so quickly it nearly dropped. Ultra Magnus pulled his fingers out, a wet gush of fluid following, messing up everything, and dug his hands into the cool gel and stirred them around. He had never had to use artificial lubricant before, but he’d seen them play with it and it seemed intuitive. Reintroducing his fingers was far easier this time around and he suspected it was not just by grace of the slickness on his hand.

“hurry, hurry,” Rodimus was almost whispering it, like a secret, eyes locked on his own valve as it swallowed each digit up one by one, “hurry, Mags!”

“It’s not Mags.”

His thumb stuck, and then he jerked his wrist and it pressed in, and Rodimus gasped as if he could hardly believe it himself. He pressed in each knuckle bit by bit, the worn pads of his palm alive with sensation, and then half his hand was in, and then two thirds. He was indeed huge, bulging, clear against Rodimus’s pelvic array as the plating rearranged itself to make room. Rodimus writhed and tugged on his legs and pushed himself into the touch and then lubricant tricked down his wrist and he was in.

They both stared, in awe, in rapture.

“You did it,” Rodimus panted, “Oh fuck, you did it.”

He curled his fingers into a fist. Rodimus slammed his back into the desk, dropping his legs, and overloaded harder than he ever had in his life. His calipers strained so hard to cycle down when they couldn’t that he feared they might snap, fluxuations of charge pulsing up Ultra Magnus’s wrist. He moaned and screamed and clawed at the desk, and all the while the hand remained, thick, wide, stretching him beyond capacity.

In the end, Ultra Magnus did not need an overload. There was some kind of release, then, transcending the sensual, and when it was over he sat down on the desk next to Rodimus and stared at the door. It was probably for the best, because if Rodimus had any more excitement that cycle he would probably combust. As he lay there recovering, he put a hand on Ultra Magnus’s thigh and squeezed, a silent gesture that they both recognized as thanks. Things were going to be alright.

Ultra Magnus had found himself sandwiched between the two on a ship going nowhere and he was strangely okay with that.


End file.
